Divided Loyalties
by happycabbage75
Summary: A ghost is reclaiming donated organs and Sam and Dean are in a race to save more lives than their own...
1. Chapter 1

**Divided Loyalties**

Summary: A ghost is visiting hospital after hospital and Sam and Dean are in a race to save more lives than their own…

Disclaimer: Not mine. And yes, still sad about that, thank you very much.

_One week… Just one more… we can do it… we can… Think happy thoughts._

Chapter One

* * *

Sam and Dean strode into the hospital. Sam warily eyed the security guard lounging to one side of the foyer reading a newspaper, while in typical fashion Dean walked in like he owned the place. It felt odd to be walking into a hospital side by side. Normally one of them was being carried in and either there was a lot of blood involved or one of them was unconscious. At the very least one of them had been threatened with something worse than a hospital visit to make them go.

"Where to?" Sam asked.

Dean stepped up to the information desk and pulled a badge out of the breast pocket of his suit coat. They were in full FBI gear and Dean was doing his best to look official. Sam faced the elderly female volunteer sitting behind the desk and did his own slightly less intimidating version of dour and businesslike since she looked to be about 70, complete with faintly blue-tinged beehive hairdo.

"We need to speak with Nurse Porter," Dean said.

"Margaret?" the woman practically squeaked, cowed by the badge and the clout the FBI carried. Dean had chosen it just for that purpose. Normal people worked along with the Feds. It was somehow more chic than local law enforcement.

"Yes, Ma'am," Dean said formally, his tone clipped. "Can you tell us where to find her?"

"I… I'll have to page her," the woman said, and Sam was momentarily afraid she was going to keel over from too much excitement. "If you'll have a seat across the way?" the elderly volunteer pointed.

"Thank you," Sam said and smiled, trying to soothe her. The smile seemed to work and beside him he heard the barest of amused grunts from Dean as they walked toward the waiting room.

"Stop making eyes at the senior citizens, Sam," Dean muttered.

"I can't smile at people who help us now?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You're supposed to be a Fed. Look stoic, will ya?"

"There's a difference between stoic and snarling at the nice candy striper lady who's gonna page our witness," Sam protested.

"Did I snarl?"

"Well, you-"

"Did I snarl?" Dean repeated.

"You kind of-"

"Did. I. Snarl?" Dean glared.

"More like growled," Sam replied.

Dean sighed and rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles. "Old ladies give me the creeps. Knitting and cookies. It's creepy."

Sam pursed his lips. "Right."

Sam sat down on one of the sofas while his brother continued to stand. After a few seconds Dean began to pace back and forth, walking a long path down the large waiting room. There were several other clumps of people waiting and something in Dean's bearing must have worried them, because Sam saw several of them either move farther away or decide on a trip to the cafeteria.

Dean had never been a patient person, but week by week, he was becoming less and less understanding of people and their slower timetables. Sam guessed that Dean could feel his time growing shorter by the minute. Everything about Dean these days seemed pressured. When Dean drank, or when he played pool, or when he talked to girls, it was all so _determined_. Dean was determined to make use of the time he had left. The trouble was that the more Dean tried to convince himself of how much fun he was having, the less Sam believed it.

This case wasn't helping either, Sam thought. He realized he was fidgeting to match Dean's pacing and quickly ordered himself to stop. They both needed to stay cool, though it was clearly getting harder and harder. They were here at the hospital because they were playing catch-up and as had been the case with everyone else they'd been able to track down, they were too late. Again.

"Easy, Dean," Sam said firmly. "You're making the natives scatter."

Dean stopped his pacing only a few feet away from him and looked at the now nearly empty waiting room in surprise. "The natives should man up."

That was the other thing. Dean was even less patient with other people's perceived weaknesses. If Dean could sacrifice himself and everything that his life might have been, then the rest of the world could be freakin' adults for the next few months and stop acting like the infantile morons they really were. Except Dean. Who thought he had every right to be infantile on occasion.

Then again, it might all just be Dean being Dean. Hard to tell.

Half of Sam wanted to throw his brother in the car, leave it all behind, and spend the next few months in a nice quiet place where nothing would bother Dean and they could be as peacefully occupied as possible. The other half of him knew, however, that Dean would never go for that because they had a job to do, imminent familial disaster or not.

Beyond that and far more importantly, Sam had research to do. Finding what he needed to save Dean was taking every bit of research skill he had and it required moving from library to library, person to person, trying everything he could think of. To save Dean they had to be on the move. So no nature retreats for the Winchester brothers. They hated camping anyway.

Sam watched as another man hurried out of the waiting room, heading toward the gift shop to get away from Dean's scowl.

"Dean, they have a family member who's sick, maybe dying, or they wouldn't be here," Sam said testily. "Cut 'em some slack."

Dean shook his head and muttered something Sam couldn't quite catch.

"What was that?"

Dean looked at him, his mouth quirking up on one side. "Dying's no excuse."

Sam tried not to flinch, but finally he couldn't hold Dean's gaze any longer, a stirring of real anger rising to the surface. "Not everyone can be as _stoic_ about it as you, man." _Like me_.

Dean sighed and scratched at the back of his head absently. Whatever he'd seen on Sam's face had him actively trying to calm himself. Sam did the same, though he had a sudden urge to go find Nurse Porter himself and drag her down here. He and Dean had no time to waste. They were both tired, mentally and physically, angry at the lack of progress, and just worn thin. This case on top of everything else… Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Hello?"

Sam and Dean both turned to see a woman wearing hospital scrubs standing only a few feet away. Dean was clearly displeased that the nurse had managed to sneak up on them. While he got his game face back on, Sam quickly stood and stepped forward.

"Margaret Porter?"

She nodded, looking from one of them to the other with that no-nonsense air about her that nurses seemed to exude somehow. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Agent Koch," Sam said. "This is Agent Wesson." They both produced their badges which she gave a cursory glance. "Do you have a moment to speak with us?"

"Of course," she said. The nurse was in her mid-thirties with dark, close-cropped hair. She was a little on the plump side, but then scrubs really never did much for a person's figure. She sat in one of the chairs that were arranged in a group while Sam and Dean sat across from her.

"We need to talk to you about Harold Cogdill," Sam started.

"I didn't think the FBI was here for the health care," she said curtly.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dean asked. "We've read the reports, but we'd like to hear it straight from you."

The woman took a deep breath and for the first time her competent façade slipped for a second. "I was checking on Mr. Cogdill and everything seemed fine. The surgery had gone well. It was early, but there were no signs of complications, rejection, etc."

"He received a lung transplant, correct?" Sam asked.

"Yes," she answered, growing more agitated.

"So you were in the room with him and then what happened?" Dean urged.

"I left to check on another patient," she said. "And it couldn't have been thirty seconds later that all the alarms went off."

"And?"

"Those rooms are almost entirely open." She shook her head, still not quite believing what she knew to be true. "The front walls are glass so that we can see in without having to actually go in the rooms."

"You didn't see anything odd? Or any_one_?"

"No." She shook her head again, almost too vehemently. "They even checked the video footage from the corridors. No one went into that room after I left."

"Just tell us what you saw," Sam said gently.

"It was gone. Just _gone_. In thirty seconds," she almost whispered. "It looked like someone had just ripped his lung right out of his chest."

* * *

_Well, it's a start, eh? We'll see where it goes…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Divided Loyalties**

Summary: Harold had his lung ripped out and the boys are on the trail…

_A short little chapter to get us from A to B._

Chapter Two

* * *

"The lung was missing," Sam stated simply. As if a missing lung was a simple thing.

"Who could do something like that?" the nurse demanded, looking at them like they might have the answer. "I mean, the way the human body is built, you've got to work to get at a lung. It looked like they reached under his ribcage and just ripped it out."

"There was no sign of the lung?" Dean asked. "You never found it?"

"No," she said. "Which is just as impossible as everything else. The room was clean as a whistle. Mr. Cogdill was a mess, but that was it. Not a blood trail. Nothing. It just disappeared."

"And Mr. Cogdill?" Sam asked.

"We did what we could… Before we realized… But, I mean…"

Sam just nodded. They'd seen the pictures. Getting your freshly transplanted lung ripped out wasn't pretty. Poor Harold had been a goner the second the nurse had left the room.

Dean stood up and Sam followed suit. "You're sure you didn't see anything odd. Anything you couldn't explain…" Dean asked. "No matter how weird it might sound."

"Like what?" She cocked her head to one side, studying them curiously, almost too curiously. She _had_ seen something.

"Anything. Anything at all. Even if it seems silly or irrelevant. Even crazy," Sam prodded.

She hesitated, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Finally she shook her head and Sam sighed. He glanced over at Dean who looked somewhere between crestfallen and pissed off.

"Thank you, Ms. Porter," Sam said. "We need to see the paperwork regarding the organ. Can you point us in the right direction?"

"You want to know about the lung?" she asked.

"We need to know where it came from," Dean affirmed.

"You'll have to talk to Administration about that." She was still frowning and Sam could tell she was dying to ask. "Can you tell me why the FBI is involved?"

Dean opened his mouth to give a most-likely overblown answer, but Sam stopped him. "We think this has happened in several other states," he explained.

"Like… like a serial killer?" the woman asked wide-eyed.

"Something like that," Sam said. "If you remember anything else, just give me a call. It could save someone's life." She nodded thoughtfully as he handed her a piece of paper with his cell number.

Sam hurried after Dean who was already heading back toward the elderly volunteer at the information desk. They needed to see the paperwork. Sam was tired of following in the wake of bodies.

* * *

"What now?" Dean asked, as they walked into the motel room they were sharing. Sam sat down at the small table while Dean shrugged out of his suit coat and threw it on the bed.

"Paperwork says it came from the same place. The ghost is definitely taking its organs back one by one," Sam said.

"Oh… Is that what's going on?" Dean snapped. "Cause Harold's down a lung and I was wondering."

"I know you're frustrated…"

"Frustrated?" Dean viciously tugged his tie from around his neck. "We're so far behind on this one, we might as well be the Jamaican Bobsled Team."

"Dean, we can't save everyone. You _know_ that."

"I know it, Sam," Dean grated out. "Still ticks me off."

Sam opened the laptop. They'd been following a trail of bodies and/or injuries for a week now, mostly through paperwork, newspapers and phone calls. Some of the incidents they'd been only hours behind, but it might as well have been years. In all the cases, the victim had recently received a transplant of some sort. Skin grafts, bits of bone, bone marrow, liver, kidneys, lungs… Harold had been the second ripped-out lung. From one second to the next, the pieces were torn away and then disappeared. Just gone. Bit by bit, the ghost was reclaiming the parts that had been taken.

"This is hopeless," Dean said angrily, running a hand through his hair in irritation.

"It's not hopeless," Sam replied, not even looking up from the screen. "I just need a little more time."

"Tell that to Harold."

"I'm working on it," Sam said through clenched teeth. They'd been through this conversation before and it was getting more and more annoying every time they had it. Thanks to mountains of paperwork on top of various security measures, they were still behind, following in the wake of the organ thefts, or re-acquisitions, however you wanted to look at it, rather than staying ahead of them.

Dean returned to his pacing. "We're running out of parts."

Sam just sighed and doggedly kept typing. Almost all the major organs had been reclaimed. The lesser parts weren't really lethal when the ghost took them back. Nasty, but not lethal.

Thanks to modern medicine added to modern transportation, the bits and pieces had been flown all over the country. They knew that all of the flights carrying the organs had come from Chicago. But then nearly everything in the Midwest went through the airports in Chicago so it could be almost anywhere in the surrounding states. Being the low-tech operation that they were wasn't helping. They just needed more access than was possible for two really off-the-grid, blue-collar guys.

Sam's cell phone rang and he absentmindedly picked it up from where he'd tossed it on the table. "Hello?"

"_Hello? Agent Koch?_"

"Ms. Porter?" Sam covered the receiver with his hand and mouthed, "It's the nurse," for Dean's benefit.

"Y_es, I… I decided I needed to tell you something. But… You're going to think I'm crazy._"

Sam nearly snorted. If he had a nickel for every time he'd heard that. "Anything you know might be important, so whatever it is…" he trailed off, knowing the silence would push her to talk. Nervous people needed to fill the silence.

"_It's just that… right before I left Mr. Cogdill's room… I thought I heard something._"

"Like what? A voice?"

"_Yes. It sounded like… The voice said something like 'part of me,' then 'I'm coming,' or something like that. I'm not sure._"

"That's all it said?" Sam asked.

"_That's all I heard. But there wasn't anyone _there_. It couldn't have been Mr. Cogdill._"

"No," Sam agreed. "It wasn't Mr. Cogdill." He was pretty sure Harold hadn't woken up and then ripped out his own lung.

"_Does… Does that help at all?_"

"Maybe so," Sam said, though his eyes were still glued to the computer screen. He'd kept typing while he talked. With the new information they'd gotten from the hospital paperwork, Sam was tracking a few new leads. "Thank you, Ms. Porter." Sam closed the phone and worked silently for several more minutes.

"You wanna share with the rest of the class?" Dean asked. "Or do I have to tell the nurse lady that Agent Jackass had a stroke and I need her to tell me what she already told you?"

"What? Sorry," Sam said, staring as the page loaded. _Crap_. "Dean, we have to go."

"What?"

"The heart, Dean. I know where the heart went."

Dean was already gathering the bags, a blur of motion as he threw everything into them haphazardly. "You sure whoever got it is still alive?" he asked.

"Hurry," Sam urged, standing and helping him gather the bags and head for the car. "We can get to him in a few hours if we hurry."

"Is that enough time?"

"Faster, Dean," was all Sam said.

* * *

_More tomorrow._


	3. Chapter 3

**Divided Loyalties**

Summary: A ghost is reclaiming its donated organs. Sam and Dean are off to save the heart…

_Thank you for the lovely reviews. It's what makes this such an enjoyable hobby._

Chapter Three

* * *

Dean half ran, half walked into the hospital, hurrying to match Sam's longer stride. It was after dark and they could only hope they weren't too late. They were in northern Indiana somewhere. Dean still wasn't exactly sure where. Sam had been navigating, simply barking 'left' and 'right' before Dean even had a chance to look at any signs.

He pulled at his tie in annoyance. They were still in their FBI suits, though now looking a bit rumpled from the frenzied drive in the car. He was going to have to wash, wax and then beg her forgiveness for treating her so roughly. He might have to take her to the movies.

It was well past visiting hours, so Sam stopped at the desk, already waving his badge. "Martin Weaver?"

The middle-aged woman nodded and quickly typed the name into her computer. "214, sir."

"Elevator?" he asked, already moving away. She pointed, and Sam nearly broke into a run.

"Do I need to call security?" the woman asked nervously.

Dean turned, still walking backwards. "No," he said. "Marty's… a witness." Well, it was sorta true. "We've got a bit of a situation with his testimony." Like they needed to talk to him before he croaked. The receptionist seemed curious, but mollified, so Dean turned and jogged after his brother who was holding the elevator open for him.

"Hurry up," Sam ordered, stepping aside so Dean could step in.

"Dude, _Feds_. She was gonna call security. Do you even _know_ the meaning of the word stoic?"

"It's after dark, Dean. There's no time to play cool," Sam shot back.

"I am _aware_," Dean said, watching as the, for some reason, _unbelievably_ slow elevator began to rise. He was _so_ tired of being behind on this job. "But I don't want to spend my last few months in the slammer, so chill, all right?" He glared, making sure Sam appreciated how much he didn't want to spend what time he had left in jail. "Practice what you preach, man. We're allowed to be pissed and freaked. We just can't _look_ pissed and freaked."

Sam let out a slow breath and nodded. "Right."

Finally, the doors opened and they hustled out. A nurse sitting at the central station watched them hurry past, but Dean nodded at her and waved for her to remain seated, flashing his badge. "Just visiting Marty. Business."

The room was like a thousand other hospital rooms. The lone occupant, a man, maybe fifty years old, startled awake and raised his pale face to stare at them as they barged into the room then shut the door behind them.

"Can," the man cleared his throat, "can I help you?"

"We're… ummm…" Sam trailed off, unsure of how to explain their presence.

"Whoever owned your heart is gonna try to repo it shortly and we're here to stop 'em," Dean said without preamble.

Sam was already pulling out an oversized canister of salt that he'd been carrying under his coat. He quickly trailed lines of salt in front of the windows and made a wide arc in front of the door.

The man was staring at them wide-eyed, his hand moving surreptitiously toward the nurse's call button.

"I wouldn't do that." Dean quickly took the button away and set it out of the man's reach on a side table. He then moved back to the foot of the bed and pulled Marigold from where he'd been hiding her beneath his jacket. The sound coming from the man's heart monitor sped up at the sight of the sawed-off shotgun.

"What do you want?" the man almost wheezed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean said, holding out his empty hand. "Don't blow a gasket. We're here to help you, all right?"

"H- help me?"

"Yes, sir," Sam said, coming back toward the bed. He shot Dean a look telling him to back off. Dean complied, but kept Marigold handy. Taunting the ghosts didn't work quite as well as rock salt.

The man swallowed dryly. "There's a problem with my heart?"

"Yes and no," Dean said and immediately heard the beeping of the man's heart rate monitor increase again. The thing was a built in radar detector. Handy.

"But the doctor said…" He trailed off and Dean actually saw it when his earlier statement dawned on the guy. "Repo?"

"Did they tell you where your heart came from?" Dean asked.

"No, not really."

"Mr. Weaver," Sam started, "have you noticed anything odd since your transplant?"

"I've heard of people having… odd feelings after a transplant. Like they weren't alone or like…"

"Yeah, we're talking more like voices," Dean cut him off. "Heard anyone?"

"I had an uncle once who heard voices. They put him away," the man frowned.

"I'll take that as a no." Dean looked to Sam and raised his eyebrows. Sam shrugged. They hadn't really planned anything beyond getting to the guy before the ghost did.

"What's the salt for?" the man in the bed asked worriedly. "And the… the gun?

"We're trying to protect you," Sam said.

"From what?"

The door swung open and the nurse from the desk down the hall walked in. She was in her early fifties, heavy-set, with short graying hair. "Visiting hours are over, gentlemen. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Dean had quickly hidden Marigold from her line of sight. "I'm afraid we can't do that," he replied firmly, reaching for his badge again. If that didn't work they were going to have to lock her in the bathroom until they could think of something better.

"Mr. Weaver needs to rest," the nurse said just as firmly. "You need to leave now. You can speak to him again tomorrow. During _visiting hours_." She looked at the monitors behind them, frowning at her patient's elevated heart rate.

The nurse moved forward and stepped on the salt line. "What is this?"

"Don't touch it!" Dean ordered, moving to pull her away.

The nurse paid no attention, however. She scuffed a shoe through the salt, breaking their one and only line of protection.

"Lady, you're like the Anti-Zelda Rubinstein," Dean said angrily. He pulled the woman into the room and away from the salt line. "Sam?" Dean said, but his brother was already in motion, moving forward to fix it.

Before he made it, it suddenly felt like they were in a vacuum. Dean actually heard his ears pop. From the pained look on Sam's face he was feeling it too. The nurse jerked her arm out of Dean's hold and turned to run for the door, but she abruptly stopped, staring at the bed. Dean swung around and he too stopped moving.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" he said, looking up from where he was just finishing with the salt.

"You're salting the Alamo. You wanna be Davy Crockett or Jim Bowie?"

"What?"

"We've got a visitor." Finally Sam followed where Dean was looking and they all stared at the patient in the bed.

Mr. Weaver was now sitting up straight, eyes staring blankly at nothing. His hand was over his heart clutching at his hospital gown. "Can't see anything," he hissed. "My _eyes_. Can't _see_ anything. Can't let him…" The man bent over as if in agony. "Taking…" He let out a bloodcurdling cry of pain and frustration. "Have to _see_!"

"What do we do?" Sam demanded loudly.

The man's chest exploded.

Dean and the nurse, standing at the foot of the bed, were spattered with blood and gore. Dean had taken the brunt of it, but they both fell back, the nurse open-mouthed as if trying to scream, but incapable of it. Dean was simply stunned into silence, his mind stuttering as it tried to process what he was seeing.

The vacuum sensation they'd been feeling suddenly released. Mr. Weaver collapsed back on the bed stone dead, a gaping hole in his chest, torn skin and ribs exposed where his borrowed heart had been ripped free. Sam was viciously knocked down, falling across the salt line, breaking it, and the room fell into silence except for a now screaming heart monitor.

The nurse walked to it, zombie-like, and with a shaking hand silenced the alarm. She then stumbled back from the body and fell into a chair.

Dean felt a glob of something slide down the side of his face and suddenly wanted to be sick, a sensation he hadn't felt in years. He'd seen so many things, been covered in who knew how many unnamable substances. But this… Marty was just a guy… and he'd _exploded_ on him.

Dean swallowed heavily. "I've been slimed."

"Everybody ok?" Sam asked hoarsely as he got to his feet.

"You mean other than Marty?"

"Yeah," Sam said, looking like he was going to barf.

"Fine," Dean said. The ghost was gonna pay though. First, Dean had nearly driven his baby into the ground to get here in time and now Marigold had _guts_ all over her. He'd just cleaned her.

"What did he mean?" Sam asked, still staring at the body.

"Can they transplant eyes?" Dean asked in turn.

Sam finally looked at him. "Huh?"

"They use parts."

Sam and Dean both turned at the sound of the nurse's strained voice. She wasn't looking at them, and appeared to be in a state of shock.

"They take the eyes apart," she whispered, raising shaking hands to her face, smearing blood across her cheeks. "For people whose eyes are damaged. Corneas… pretty common these days."

"Can you help us find out who has them?" Sam asked.

The nurse blinked slowly. "What?"

"This will happen to the person who has the eyes, too. We need to know where they are."

"That…" She pointed toward her patient's remains. "That's real? I'm not dreaming?"

Dean felt sorry for her. He really did. But they didn't have time for pity right now. The ghost was already looking for another poor guy to kill. "No, you're not dreaming." Dean walked over and stood in front of her, purposely blocking her view of the bed. She didn't even notice that he was still holding Marigold. "Can you help us?"

"I don't know," she said blankly.

"Will you try?" Sam asked. "The eyes seem important to it."

"It?"

"The thing that just did a live reenactment of _Alien_," Dean offered, earning a disparaging glare from his brother. Dean shrugged. He'd always liked the sequel better anyway.

"I… I could make some calls," she said. The nurse's face changed as she stood, going into battle mode. Dean could appreciate a person who recovered well in a crisis. "You need… what exactly?"

Sam nodded his encouragement. "We need to know the original donor and where the parts were sent."

"Right." She took a deep calming breath. She was still refusing to look at the bed, but Dean couldn't really blame her. "Come with me. I need to put you two somewhere else while I report this."

"We're leaving." Dean reached into a pocket and pulled out a receipt from whatever diner they'd eaten at last. "Pen?" The nurse pulled one from her own pocket. "This is my cell number. Call us if you find something."

"I will." She looked from one of them to the other, her expression solemn. "You can stop this if I help you?"

"Yes," they answered simultaneously.

"I've worked in this hospital a long time… Seen some weird things… Never been able to do anything about them though. Just comes with the job." She looked at them again, appraising them. Then she finally looked at Mr. Weaver lying dead behind them and it seemed to make up her mind. "Go. I'll call you."

Sam and Dean both headed for the elevator, almost as fast as when they'd been coming in. Dean had no intention of being in the hospital when the alarm went up.

"Umm… sir?"

They both stopped and turned at the nurse's questioning voice. "Yeah?"

"You might want to clean up a bit before you pass the front desk." The nurse grimaced. "You've got some lung on you."

Dean looked down at himself. Mess didn't begin to cover what he looked like. Talk about lost causes.

"Button your coat, wipe your face off and stay behind me," Sam ordered.

"Goliath protecting the little guy," Dean muttered. "Seems wrong somehow."

"Move, Dean," Sam said. "We've still got a little guy to protect. And he's gonna get his eyes ripped out of his head if we don't get outta here before the cops show."

They stepped into the elevator and watched the doors close behind them. "That's not gonna happen."

"Right," Sam affirmed.

"Cause judging from what happened in there, they'll just explode."

"Not comforting, Dean."

"Just going for accuracy."

* * *

_Y'all thought I could get through a story and not kill somebody? More tomorrow…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Divided Loyalties**

Summary: So the heart thing didn't work out quite as well as Sam and Dean had hoped… They need to find the eyes now.

_A little icky last chapter. I'd have said 'sorry' at the top of the chapter, but some of you might have thrown something._

Chapter Four

* * *

Dean was getting seriously tired of hospitals. They smelled of pain and death and dying. Not exactly what he wanted right now. As a matter of fact he was trying really hard not to think about those things. _Really_ hard. At least he'd had time to shower and change into normal clothes. The Fed outfit was a complete write-off. He wasn't even going to try to get it clean.

After what felt like years of waiting, the nurse had finally called them to say that she'd tracked down some information. She hadn't been able to find out who had donated the organs, but she'd tracked down the eyes or parts of them anyway. An injured soldier had needed them. The delicate work had been done elsewhere, but the man was recovering from that surgery and other injuries at the VA hospital in Danville, Illinois.

Sam and Dean walked down the halls of the veteran's hospital trying to find their way through the maze to the right room. It was a large, very high-tech looking facility and the very definition of tax dollars at work. As they walked, they passed military men of every shape and size, every age and ethnicity, every personality. Some were happy, joking with those around them, others were sitting in contented silence, and still others were silent for very different reasons. Dean recognized the look of men who'd seen and done too much. He'd seen that look in his father's eyes, his own eyes sometimes when he was too tired and beaten down to hide it any longer. And it wasn't necessarily the silent ones you had to watch out for.

Finally they arrived at the right room number. They stepped inside and Dean warily kept a lookout for exploding eyeballs as they rounded the corner. To his relief, the man was lying peacefully in the bed. His eyes were bandaged lightly with metal and plastic rimmed gauze patches. His face looked almost scorched. There were signs of other injuries as well, but they appeared to be healing along with his face.

The man turned toward them although he couldn't see. "Is that you, Katie?"

"John Kinirsky?"

He instantly sat up a bit straighter at the sound of a stranger. "Yes."

"You feeling ok today?" Dean asked. "Eyes doing ok?"

"Pretty good," he smiled. "Still blurry, but that's normal. It'll take a while, but it's better than being blind. Now who are you?" he asked, a bit more steel in his tone.

"I'm Dean. This is Sam. We're working security here at the hospital. There are some concerns about your last procedure."

"My eyes?" Kinirsky said worriedly. "The Doc checked them this afternoon. Said everything's looking good. Gonna let me go to just glasses to protect my eyes tomorrow."

"Yeah, I'm sure he's right," Sam said quickly.

"After I tried to burn them out of my head, I'm really not hoping for any more problems."

"I'm sure."

"So… You're not doctors. What is it?"

Sam and Dean shared a look. Finally Dean cleared his throat to speak. "A… family member of the donor has gone a little off the deep end. They're hurting the people who received their loved one's organs."

"Hurt how?" the soldier asked.

"They're dead."

Kinirsky went very still, assessing, wheels turning. If Dean hadn't seen the injuries, he'd still have recognized a combat veteran.

"You're here to protect me?" he asked.

"That's us," Dean answered, letting the reassurance show in his voice.

"Do you know anything about the donor?" Sam asked as he pulled the canister of salt out of their duffel bag and headed for the windows. It was just now heading toward dark, so they hadn't been in quite such a frantic hurry.

"No, sir."

"I was afraid of that," Dean muttered.

Sam finished the windows and went for the door. "One of us will be with you until we get this situation taken care of. That be all right?"

"If it'll keep me from being dead, you guys have at it. Not like I'm in a position to take care of it myself," the man replied practically.

"Great," Dean said. "You, uhh… haven't noticed anything odd? Say last night?"

"Didn't sleep worth a crap, but that's nothing odd, really. Why? Should I be looking for something in particular?"

"No, you'll… know it when it happens," Dean answered. He sincerely hoped it didn't come to that. As it was he wasn't going to be able to sleep without seeing exploding body parts.

"So, uhhh…" Kinirsky shifted uncomfortably. "You're just gonna sit here?"

"That's the plan," Dean said. Sam was already sitting down in a chair and opening his laptop. They still needed to know where the donor had come from. Sam had been reduced to searching for accidents or other deaths that might have resulted in a healthy donor. Searching through several states worth of obituaries was driving him batty and not getting them anywhere fast. People died in car wrecks, died in other accidents, died in crimes. Whatever it was though, it had to have been a person who even in death could donate all of their major organs.

"You guys in the service?" the man asked.

"Sometimes, it feels like forever," Dean responded automatically and was surprised at the weariness in his own voice. Sam must have heard it too, because he looked up from his computer and frowned.

"We're just doing security now though," Sam said, his worried eyes still on Dean.

"You guys must've served together," the soldier said.

"How can you tell?" Dean asked, grateful for an excuse to turn back toward the bed.

The guy smiled, a sad, knowing smile. "Just can."

Dean nodded, although the man couldn't see it. "Yeah, well, Sam and I've got matching tattoos. I won't tell you where, but if we make it through this, I'll show you."

Kinirsky laughed. "Sometimes I'm glad I can't see."

"You mind me asking what happened?"

The soldier's laugh trailed away to be replaced by another sad half-smile. "Had a bad day at the office."

Dean pursed his lips. "Had a couple of those myself."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sam's had a couple of bad hair days too. This one time…"

"Dean," Sam gave a growl of warning, "Tell one of your own embarrassing stories, will ya?"

Dean's grin became wolfish. "Not nearly as much fun."

"You want me to tell him about the squirrel?"

His eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

This time it was Sam's grin that turned wolfish. "Watch me."

Dean looked from the man in the bed who was trying not to laugh, back to his brother. Finally, he shrugged. "I'll tell him about Miss Corbin County Donkey Days, then you can tell him about the squirrel. Only fair."

"Dean," Sam said again, his expression thunderous. "You _swore_ you'd never-"

Sam stopped speaking abruptly and his face went from outraged to strained. Dean turned, simultaneously moving closer to the bag he'd set to one side where Marigold lay ready and waiting.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was wearing a scrub top with teddy bears on it and an ID badge that said she was an RN. She stepped into the room and firmly closed the door behind her then turned to face them.

"What's going on guys?" Kinirsky asked. The tension level in the room had risen exponentially and though the man couldn't see, Dean knew he could feel it.

"We may have a problem," Dean said mildly.

"Problem?"

"Stay still," Sam ordered.

Dean had yet to remove his gaze from the woman, but he felt Sam move to stand beside him. Her eyes were blank, but her expression was set, determined. She was holding a syringe in one hand with the needle already bared. As they watched she raised it to her neck.

"Stop!" Sam shouted, even as she slid the needle into the skin, though she did not depress the plunger. Dean grabbed Marigold, but he held his fire. A shot would only cause a whole new set of problems.

"Break the line," the possessed woman rasped.

Neither Dean nor Sam moved, unsure of what to do. If they let her through, Kinirsky was going to be in a world of trouble and if not…

"I need to _see_," the woman said. "Let me through!"

"Guys," the soldier said nervously. "Blind guy, here. Tell me what's going on."

"Quiet." It was a definite command and the soldier obeyed, though Dean noticed he was pulling off the mesh and metal patches covering his eyes. They might not be tip-top, but he needed to see apparently as much as the ghost did. Dean couldn't blame him.

"We won't let you through," Sam stated firmly.

The woman walked up so that she was toeing the salt line, the syringe still at her neck, filled with only the ghost knew what. "I will kill her if I have to," she said, her voice harsh and grating.

"Anyone else having a really unpleasant _Blazing Saddles_ flashback?" Dean muttered, his hold on Marigold tightening involuntarily.

"Katie?" Kinirsky asked in disbelief and Dean remembered the nurse the man had expected when they'd first entered.

"Katie's out to lunch," Dean said. "We've got a squatter."

"What?"

"I will kill her!" the nurse screeched. "How many more do you think I can find after I kill this one? Enough to convince you?" she snarled. "I need to see! I have to!" The nurse tightened her grip to empty the syringe.

"Don't!" Sam shouted and thankfully the nurse stilled.

Dean looked at Sam and knew his own expression was mirrored on his brother's face. It was either let the ghost through and take Kinirsky's eyes or let her kill the nurse, maybe others if they didn't acquiesce fast enough. They both turned to see the soldier in the bed looking at them through bleary, watering eyes. Hello, Rock. Meet a Hard Place.

Dean stepped forward. Sam reached out to hold him back and then stopped himself. Their eyes met, Sam's troubled gaze hurting almost as much as what Dean was about to do. But a blind man or a dead nurse… the lesser of two evils…

Dean turned back to the possessed woman. "Lose the syringe," he ordered.

The ghost did as instructed, removing it from her victim's neck, though she kept it in hand. Dean closed the distance warily, but the woman didn't move, just waited. With one last look at Sam, Dean scuffed a deliberate line through the salt.

The nurse dropped like a rag doll. Dean caught her before she hit the floor and quickly settled her against the wall, taking the syringe from her hand and tossing it into the closest trashcan. Fearing what he would see, Dean turned back toward the bed. Visions of exploding eyeballs danced through his mind. Some people got sugarplums. He got exploding eyeballs. Just his luck.

Sam was standing close to the foot of the bed watching Kinirsky whose eyes were so far still in his head. "You ok?" Sam asked warily.

The man on the bed blinked, eyes moving from Sam to Dean and then back again. He raised a hand and felt his neck almost expectantly. His movement pulled at the IV attached to his arm. The man ripped the IV free and then began furiously pulling loose the other sensors still attached to him.

"Whoa. What are you doing?" Dean demanded as Kinirsky threw the sheets aside and pushed his legs over the edge. Still no eyeballs exploding though. So he had that going for him. Which was nice.

"Stay out of my way," Kinirsky said, only his voice was rougher than what they'd heard earlier, gravelly.

Dean pointed Marigold at the man and stepped directly into his path. "Whoever you are, you're kinda borrowing some things that don't belong to you. Really can't let you leave."

Kinirsky's eyes were bright now, although they suddenly appeared whole and healthy. He looked around the room, wildly searching for something Dean couldn't see. "You don't understand," he said. "I've got to find her!"

"Who?" Dean asked.

"My sister," he cried. "He killed me, but he took my sister! Please!"

"Your sister's _alive_?" Sam asked.

"Yes," the ghost replied, frustration plain on his borrowed face. "I've got to get to her before he kills her too."

Dean knew he was scowling, but he had to ask. "You know who he is?"

"I can _see_ him," the ghost said as if Dean were the stupidest thing it had ever come across. "She is _part_ of me and he took her. I have to hurry. Can you help me?"

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Divided Loyalties**

Summary: The ghost was putting itself back together so it could save its sister… So now the boys are off to save her.

_Pardon me for posting a bit later than usual. This was going to be a longer story, but y'all don't seem particularly gaga over it, so I've pared it down. We'll just make it short and sweet._

Chapter Five

* * *

"This is crazy. We specialize in crazy, but this is crazy," Dean said, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Sam didn't bother to look at their passenger in the back seat, but he had to agree. This was nuts.

Kinirsky was sitting in the back seat, wearing Dean's sunglasses and staring straight ahead. They'd rummaged and found a stray pair of scrubs for him to wear and then snuck him out of the hospital. Sam was concerned for the soldier's wounds and sincerely hoped he was well enough for this little trek.

Dean was practically twitching in the driver's seat. Marigold was sitting within easy reach beside him and he was watching their passenger as much as he was watching the road. Sam had considered sitting in the back himself, but Dean hadn't been happy with the idea of the ghost riding shotgun either. Dean just wasn't happy with having the ghost anywhere near his car, or near them at all for that matter, and Sam had to agree with that too. The possessed man was the only way they had to find the ghost's sister, though. They would just have to put up with it for the time being.

"So, you wanna tell us what happened?" Dean said, looking at Kinirsky in the rear-view mirror.

Sam turned in the seat so that he could look at the man, but he still didn't say anything. After they'd gotten in the car, the ghost had fallen silent and ignored them completely.

Dean pursed his lips in further annoyance. "How about your name? What's your name?"

"We're going to help you," Sam said by way of encouragement. "We just want to know what we're getting into." A name meant they could look up the details on their own.

"Melody Mason," the ghost said grudgingly and then fell silent again.

Dean let out a bark of laughter that he worked to turn into a cough. "Sorry…" he said, eyeing _Melody_, who was currently a scarred, six foot, muscle-bound soldier complete with buzz cut. "How about we call you Mel?"

The ghost didn't bother to respond to that. "Drive faster."

Dean snorted. "Yes, ma'am. How about you give us an idea where we're going other than east."

"East. Just drive."

Dean shook his head again. "You know why I like ghosts so much, Sam? It's the conversation. They just give and give."

"He… _She_ hasn't tried to kill us yet," Sam tried.

Dean shot him a sidelong glance. "Dude, yesterday I had a guy _explode_ on me."

Sam shifted uncomfortably at the memory and felt the renewed disturbing sensation of having a murderous spirit sitting almost directly behind him. A ghost who didn't have a moment's hesitation over killing innocent people to save her sister. She'd killed and killed just to put herself back together well enough to go after whoever was hurting the person she loved.

Did that make her a good guy or a bad guy? Both? Neither?

Dean cleared his throat, a nervous tick of his, and looked yet again in the rearview mirror. The gesture drew Sam's attention. What was he willing to do to save Dean? Who was he willing to go through, what was he willing to suffer to save his brother? He really looked at Dean, studying the face he knew as well as his own, and a cold wave washed over him. Cold determination. What was he willing to do? At this point… almost anything.

Dean was frowning. "What?"

"Nothing." Sam glanced back at Mel. "I need to look up her story if she's not going to talk. I don't wanna walk into this blind."

"Tell that to Glasses back there."

Sam chuckled. "You're just mad he's wearing your shades."

"Yeah, well I don't care if you want his eyes protected. If he scratches 'em…" Dean shot Kinirsky another heated glance.

"South."

"I think Mel wants us to turn," Sam sighed.

"Master of subtlety, isn't he?"

"She," Sam corrected.

"Looks like a he to me."

"_South_," Mel said again, more forcefully.

"This ain't _Dukes of Hazzard_," Dean snapped. "This baby doesn't do off-road." Nevertheless, he turned at the next road south and they continued in silence for several minutes. Finally, the country road they were on arrived at a small town which the sign declared to be the vast metropolis of Waynetown, population 650.

"East."

"Something new and different," Dean observed.

"East."

"Dean, maybe we should stop for a minute, let me see if I can find any details of what happened," Sam suggested.

Faster than Sam could even comprehend, Kinirsky had his arm around Dean's neck, trapping him in a crushing headlock, pressing him back into the seat. Dean choked, struggling to free himself and to keep the car from crashing.

Sam turned and frantically reached his foot across to the brake. The Impala screeched to a halt, throwing Marigold out of his reach onto the floorboards. Sam dug his fingers into Kinirsky's arm, trying to force him to release Dean, but he couldn't so much as budge him. Granted the ghost had no problem with hurting people, Kinirsky included, to get what she wanted. Mel might let Sam rip the guy's arm off and not care.

"EAST."

"Got it," Dean managed to gasp out. "East."

"NOW," the ghost ordered, and as quickly as she'd grabbed Dean, she released him.

Dean hunched forward, grasping his bruised neck. "Lady…" He coughed. "Never… choke… the driver."

"Dean?" Sam asked worriedly.

Dean nodded, just sitting for a few seconds, breathing in and out, as if relearning the action. "I'm fine," he finally said, warily watching their back-seat passenger. "You wanna tell me one more time how the ghost hasn't tried to kill us yet?"

Sam grimaced. "A little premature."

"I think you broke my foot when you mashed it with those sasquatch-sized feet of yours," Dean said accusingly.

"I was trying to keep us from crashing!"

"EAST!" the man behind them bellowed.

"Right," Dean said, pulling back onto the road and turning at the next street that looked like any other residential street in smalltown America.

Dean gingerly rubbed his throat as they passed house after house, mostly small, white ones, a few brick homes mixed in, with yards in varying states of care. None of them in particular stood out from the rest as saying 'murderer lives here'.

"Stop," Mel ordered, and Dean immediately pulled over. "That one," the ghost pointed toward a small square home, sitting back a little farther on the lot than the houses surrounding it.

"All right, Mel," Dean said, "You gotta tell us something. Who are we after?"

"My sister and I were leaving a late movie. He cornered us and tried to take us both. I fought him and was shot." The ghost raised a hand to her neck, feeling the wound that had killed her, Sam guessed. "Someone must have called the police. I remember hearing the sirens coming. He forced Harmony into the car and left me there to die."

"How do you know your sister's still alive?" Dean asked.

"She is part of me," Mel said, opening the car door and stepping out. "I would know."

Sam saw Dean nod and then glance at him, a knowing look on his face. He abruptly looked away, reached down to grab Marigold from where she'd fallen, then he too opened his door and stepped out of the car. Sam could practically see the weight of how well Dean had understood Mel's statement and it made his heart constrict painfully.

Sam suddenly realized he was just staring after his brother and shook himself out of his reverie. He hurried out of the car to see that Mel was walking straight up the central walk to the house.

"So much for stealthy," Dean muttered, before heading after the ghost. He was carrying Marigold, but Sam knew he was carrying a handgun as well. They didn't know much, but they knew that they were going up against a human murderer. Rock salt for the ghost, lead for the killer. They just didn't know who they trusted less, the ghost or the man who'd killed her. Sam wrapped a hand around the grip of the gun he had tucked at his back and followed up the walk.

Dean pushed Mel out of the way before she broke open the front door. Sam heard his brother mutter something about 'covert ops' as he quickly knelt. Dean picked the lock, then stood to one side as he nudged it open.

The small living room was empty. Dean took the lead and motioned for Sam to follow. A stern look from Dean had Mel bringing up the rear as they searched room to room. Two small bedrooms, a bathroom and finally the kitchen were empty.

Dean looked back to Mel. "Little help here? And if you say _east_…"

Mel simply pointed past him toward a door tucked into the far wall.

"Basement," Sam observed, and noticed Dean's chagrinned reaction. Basements were bad for a number of reasons, most importantly that it was way too easy to get barricaded in and/or ambushed.

Once again, Dean led the way. The wooden stairs creaked as they moved down them, but no raving madmen appeared with guns blazing. Finally they stepped down onto the concrete floor. Sam flipped a switch and two florescent overhead lights flickered to life, dimly illuminating the center of the room.

There were two doors on the far wall, both closed. Along the front wall was a twin size bed. There was someone lying in it, but as Sam kept his eyes on them, the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. The person in the bed had long hair spreading out over the pillow. She was on her back, head tilted slightly toward them. Her face was sunken, sickly.

"She's dead," Dean said and Sam knew he was right. No breathing, no small movements that were the normal signs of life, even in sleep. No matter what the ghost had told them, they were too late.

"That's not my sister," Mel stated firmly.

"No, she's not."

Sam backed up aiming toward the sound of the voice. Dean brought Marigold to bear as a man they hadn't even noticed stood from where he'd been sitting on the floor beside the bed and emerged from the shadows, gun in hand.

"She's mine."

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Divided Loyalties**

Summary: Sam and Dean are in the basement of the killer's house trying to help Mel's ghost save her sister…

_So the showdown today, the wrap-up tomorrow…_

Chapter Six

* * *

"Drop the gun," Dean ordered. 

As the man came further into the light, Sam saw that his eyes were bright with tears, wild and crazed in his misery as he continued to point the gun. He looked broken, bereft of hope and perhaps sanity.

"I said _drop the gun_." Dean set Marigold down and pulled his Colt from his waistband in one smooth motion. He thumbed the hammer back. The noise itself was meant to be intimidating and though the man didn't obey, Sam saw him blink, the action getting his attention far better than Dean's words had done.

"What for?" the man finally croaked out. "She's dead. It's all useless now. Everything I've done. Everything. There's no point to _any_ of it."

"Look," Sam said soothingly, "whatever happened…"

"She's dead!" the man cried, stabbing his gun in Sam's direction.

"Back off!" Dean shouted in return. Sam hurriedly waved him back, afraid he would just take the guy out. They needed to know what was going on and Harmony was still hidden somewhere.

"Don't you get it? My sister's dead!"

"I'm sorry," Sam said, really meaning it. No matter what the guy had done, Sam could mean that much. "I'm really sorry."

"He wouldn't do it," the man said through his tears. "Why wouldn't he do it?"

Sam and Dean shared a confused glance, though Dean was still keeping a close watch on the guy. "Who wouldn't?" Sam asked.

While they were talking, Mel had moved toward the two closed doors. The first door opened easily and inside Sam could see what looked like medical equipment. Nothing too fancy, but definitely more than would be necessary just for taking care of a sick relative. The second door, however, was locked. Sam heard a distinct whimper from inside the room and Mel immediately set a shoulder to it. Still it would not open.

"Get away from there!" the gunman ordered. He changed his aim to Mel and without hesitation Dean fired, knocking the man back. The noise temporarily deafened Sam, echoing off the concrete walls and floor.

"Sam, get his gun." Dean kept the guy covered while Sam inched forward. Dean's shot had pushed him back into the corner where he'd been seated as they'd come downstairs, but the gun had fallen from his hand. Sam quickly retrieved it, noting Dean had taken a shot to the man's shoulder that would force him to release the weapon. Apparently his brother wanted some answers too.

Not crossing Dean's line of fire, Sam walked to the locked room and waved Mel back. "Get away from the door," Sam shouted so the woman inside could hear. He waited a few seconds then shot the lock. He still had to set his shoulder to it and it finally flew open on its hinges.

The bare room stank of fear and confinement. A young woman sat huddled in the opposite corner of the small room. She had crammed herself as far into the corner as she could go. More surprisingly, however, was the presence of a man with her. He had placed himself between her and the door, crouching down, shielding her.

After several seconds, the man looked up and Sam could see that he was roughly forty with prematurely graying hair and several days' worth of beard growing, liberally sprinkled with gray as well. His eyes were weary, yet defiant until he saw who it was and then they widened in surprise.

"Who…" He swallowed past a dry throat. "Who are you?"

"We came to get you out of here," Sam answered simply. "Are you all right?"

"We thought… I thought… He would just kill us once Susie was gone."

"Harmony?" Mel said, elbowing Sam out of the way. Once again, the other man literally shielded the young woman with his body. "Harmony, are you ok?"

The young woman whimpered again, not even daring to look up. Mel sank down beside her. "She's my sister. I've got her now," the ghost said to her protector and the man exhaled and sat back as if he'd been relieved of a heavy burden.

"She needs medical attention," he said, leaning back against the wall, but still staying close to the woman. "After Susie died, we knew it was all over. Harmony kind of… I haven't been able to get her to talk to me since this afternoon when it happened."

"Get her out to the car," Dean ordered from the other room. Mel didn't need any further encouragement. She scooped up her sister, taking full advantage of the soldier's physique, and had her out of the room and up the stairs in seconds flat.

"What happened here?" Sam asked, helping the other prisoner to his feet.

"Harmony was already here when Dr. Travis kidnapped me."

"_Dr_. Travis?"

"Yes. He was their family physician. It was how he determined the girls would be acceptable donors."

Sam helped the shaky man into the main room. He eyed his wounded captor warily, but the weeping man wasn't paying them any attention.

"Dr. Travis' sister needed a transplant?"

"Yes," the man answered, "but she was denied. She had other medical conditions that disqualified her."

"He took Harmony to be a donor?" Dean asked, scowling down at the man he'd shot. He looked as if he'd like to shoot him again.

The man just nodded his head wearily. "He told me Melody was the one he wanted. Harmony was just the… spare… in case something went wrong."

"Nice. And who are you?" Dean asked, though he had yet to take his eyes off of Travis.

"Andrew Sands." The man sat down on the stairs, his legs no longer able to hold him up.

"Why you?"

"Travis isn't a surgeon."

"But you are," Sam said.

"Why wouldn't you do it?" Travis suddenly said, working his way back to his feet. "Why?"

"I've told you. I won't kill someone, Travis, not even to save myself," Dr. Sands said solemnly.

"You could have saved her," Travis said angrily.

"Susie was on borrowed time," Sands replied calmly. "You knew that. Killing Harmony would not have saved her."

"It could have!" the man shouted.

"Doc, can you make it up the stairs?" Dean asked. He waited for a grunt of assent. "Then why don't you go check on Harmony."

Sam didn't like the look on Dean's face, but he didn't say anything until the doctor was out of the basement. Dr. Travis had moved back and was sitting on the bed beside his dead sister, brushing her hair away from her sunken face using his uninjured arm.

"Dean, we should call the police," Sam said quietly.

His brother ignored him. "Did you check yourself, Travis? Did you?"

"What?" the man looked up, confused.

"Before you killed Melody. Before you kidnapped her sister and the surgeon. Did you check to see if you could be a donor?" Dean's voice was low, angry. _Malevolent_.

"I…" Travis blinked like a deer in the headlights.

"Did you offer yourself before you went and killed someone else's sister? Did you?" Dean demanded through clenched teeth.

"I did what I had to do to save her!" Travis shouted. "I gave everything I could!"

"Everything but yourself," Dean shot back. "Mel went down fighting to save hers. _She_ gave everything she could. You didn't even consider yourself as a donor did you?"

"Dean," Sam said carefully, trying to draw Dean's attention away, to get him to focus on something other than the gun he was gripping so tightly.

"What?"

"We need to call the police," Sam said again.

Dean didn't seem to hear him, maybe wasn't capable of hearing him. Once again he was expecting everyone to be like him, to live by his set of values. If your family's in trouble, you put yourself between them and the danger. You stand there and die if you have to, but you save them because that's what you do. That's love.

Sam and Dean both knew the desperation, the willingness to do anything to save your family. Until recently, Dean had understood that desperation far better than Sam ever had. As a child, he'd taken it to heart and made it an integral part of his soul. Sam hadn't fully appreciated it then. Since Jess though, since Dad, since the Deal… Sam knew that frantic, near reckless desperation to save his brother.

But how far was too far? It was the question that burned through his brain, kept him awake at night.

Travis had made the wrong choice and in making the wrong choice had doomed himself along with his sister. Dean may have done the same thing when he'd made the deal at the crossroads. He still didn't understand the almost unbearable weight Sam felt at the price Dean was paying, the burden causing his brother's death would be. Or maybe he did, thanks to their dad, but was just refusing to think about it. Whatever the case, Dean's choice may have doomed them both. Sam had to make sure it didn't come to that. He also had to make sure that whatever he did to save his brother wasn't worse than what had already been done. Another wrong choice would ensure their ruin.

"Dean?" Sam said again, trying to get through. "We need to get Harmony to a hospital."

That tactic seemed to work and Dean relaxed slightly. He still didn't move for several seconds, but finally he let out a slow breath and nodded. "Right. We can call in a tip on the way."

"No need." Mel's rasping voice came from behind them. Neither of them had heard the man come back down the stairs. Kinirsky stood behind them, but his eyes were all for good doctor Travis.

"We're going to call the police, Mel. Your sister can tell them what he's done," Sam said, not liking the expression on the ghost's face any better than the one Dean had been wearing.

"My sister won't talk to me," Mel accused. "He's taken that from me too. She was everything to me. She was _part_ of me. You have separated me from a part of myself."

"I just wanted to save Susie," Travis said brokenly. "Sands… he wouldn't help me save her."

"Do you know what it is to feel a part of you die?" she asked. "To feel the loss of that connection?"

Mel stepped between Sam and Dean, literally pushing them aside as she stalked toward Travis, a lioness whose cub had been hurt.

"Is it wrong to want to save your sister?" Travis asked, something of the danger he was in seeming to sink in. It was exactly the wrong thing to say, however.

Mel's face twisted with fury. "At the cost of _mine_?"

Sam put out a hand to hold her back, but she smacked it away, then thrust out a hand and Sam staggered back falling to the floor. Seeing Sam down, Dean was instantly enraged, but the ghost wasn't having any of it. She held out the other hand and Dean crashed to the ground as if a weight had been dropped on top of him.

"Do you feel that?" Mel asked Travis. Sam fought to raise his head just in time to see an odd expression cross the doctor's face. "Those are your kidneys failing. It won't really trouble you yet though. Now? Your liver, I think…"

Travis frowned, as if trying to understand what was going on.

"Not really feeling it?" Mel continued. "So many things to go wrong, but it takes time for your body to realize it. Let's try… your left lung." Travis' eyes flew wide and the hand that had been holding his wounded shoulder flew to his chest as his breathing stuttered. "And now the right."

Travis' knees buckled and he fell against the bed where his sister lay dead. He made hideous, futile noises, trying to drag air into his already dead lungs.

Dean was fumbling for Marigold, but Mel knew exactly what she was doing and Dean just wasn't strong enough to fight her.

"Mel, there's no need for this," Sam tried, but it was a lost cause. There was no reasoning with ghosts and he knew it. It was almost as bad as trying to reason with Dean.

Mel stood over her dying victim, staring down at him. "Now do you feel what it is to miss a part of yourself? My sister and I, we were together. Two halves, and now we're _broken_ and you can't fix it." Travis just continued to gasp like a landed fish. "But you can pay," she rasped. "Your heart…" She cocked her head as if listening to the man's heartbeat. "That's you heart… faltering… stuttering… stopping."

Travis convulsed like he was being squeezed from the inside out. For just a moment he stared at Mel with stricken eyes and then like a puppet whose strings had been cut he collapsed in a limp pile.

Sam immediately felt the pressure holding him back ease and he hurried to his feet. Dean, however, was still down, looking like he was having to work to breathe. Sam raced to his side and knelt beside him. Dean's eyes were closed, but flew open as Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. He then looked up at Mel who was standing on Dean's other side.

"Let him go," Sam ordered angrily. "He hasn't done anything to you."

Mel ignored him, looking down at Dean. "Your brother is fine. You see? There is no need for any of the things you are thinking."

Sam looked down at Dean and saw the murder in his eyes. Those eyes flickered to Sam, assessing him, judging if the ghost was telling the truth. _Are you all right?_ Those eyes asked. _Cause I'll rip her to pieces again if she hurt you._

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam whispered and Dean closed his eyes again, concentrating on his labored breathing. Sam looked back up at Mel. "Let him go," he said again, "or you'll have two of us to deal with."

Mel simply nodded. She turned away and Dean instantly inhaled as if starved for breath. He rose to his feet, his handgun forgotten on the floor, Marigold poised and ready, held one-handed.

"Sammy, you ok?"

"Yeah, you?"

"I was fine 'til Major Payne here dropped an anvil on me."

"You were going to shoot me," Mel said calmly.

"I still might."

"I don't want to kill you," the ghost said.

"I'm reassured. How about you, Sam? You reassured?"

"Dean…"

Mel turned back toward them. "I have to go now."

"What?" Sam heard the barest hesitation in Dean's voice.

"My sister will be safe now. She has made a new connection, something new to be a part of."

"What?" Dean said again, genuine uncertainty creeping in now.

"Dr. Sands. They will be very good for each other."

"How do you know?" Sam asked.

Mel smiled. "I can see it," she answered simply. Mel moved toward the stairs and sat down heavily as if exhausted. She looked up and studied them both for several seconds, first Dean and then Sam.

"You're beautiful. You know that?"

"I hope that's still Melody talking," Dean muttered.

"I've never seen anything like it," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You two. The bond is… ferocious. I cannot think of a better way to describe it." Tears formed in her eyes and spilled down Kinirsky's cheeks. "I love my sister, but you two… I envy you. Sam," she said, looking at him specifically, "you must do what has to be done when the time comes."

Sam nodded. "I will." He was as certain of it, felt it as fiercely as he had beside the Impala that night.

The ghost smiled in acknowledgement. "I think in the end you will be the saving of each other." She looked to Dean. "I envy that too." She sagged slightly, her borrowed muscles weakening. "Thank you both… for helping me." Mel slumped against the wall as if suddenly falling asleep on the stairs.

"She's gone," Sam said into the sudden silence.

"Maybe she's just stunned. You know. By our beauty."

"Dean," Sam said in exasperation.

"Don't get all mopey on me." Dean rolled his eyes as he moved forward. "Kinirsky weighs a ton and we're going to have to carry him upstairs."

"We?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "Stairs are pretty narrow. You're on your own."

"You're kinda harshing the whole _beautiful_ moment here, Sam."

"She told me to save your sorry ass, not help you carry his up the stairs." Nevertheless Sam moved around Kinirsky to grab him around the chest, while Dean took his feet.

"Look on the bright side," Dean said, grunting with the effort of carrying the heavy man up the stairs. "At least no one exploded."

* * *

_The wrap-up tomorrow…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Divided Loyalties**

Summary: Mel's gone and so is her killer. Time to ride off into the sunset… Or go back to the motel and sleep…

_Hope you enjoyed this one. Many thanks to you kind souls who left reviews._

Chapter Seven

* * *

Dean shrugged off his jacket and threw it over the back of the motel chair. Dr. Sands and Harmony had been dropped off at the nearest hospital. It didn't matter what they told the police about their escape. Sam and Dean were already far away. A woozy Kinirsky had been walked into the VA hospital and left in the front waiting room. A quick call had ensured he would be located quickly after they were gone. Though Dean was no doctor, the guy's eyes looked good. Mel might have done him a service, made his eyes a real part of him. More importantly though, Dean's sunglasses were safe and sound back in the Impala. 

Dean sighed and sat down at the table where Sam was already pulling burgers out of a fast food bag. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really slept. Ever since body parts had started making a run for it, he and Sam had been on the run too. Dean began counting backwards, trying to remember when this whole mess had started…

"Aren't you gonna eat?"

Dean jerked awake and realized he'd nodded off sitting in the chair.

"What? Sorry…" Dean ran a hand over his sandpaper tired eyes and looked at his brother who didn't appear much better. "Maybe I'll just get some sleep."

"Yeah," Sam said, pushing his own half-eaten meal aside. "Here take a look at this." He turned the laptop around so that Dean could see the screen. He didn't even remember Sam opening the computer.

Dean squinted tiredly trying to get the print to come into focus. "_Woman_… _Crossroads_-"

Dean sprang to his feet and stumbled back, tripping over the chair in his panic to get away. He fell awkwardly, banging his elbow on the bed frame, but still he scrambled away, moving until he hit the wall, then sat with his back to it, his knees drawn up and his eyes tightly shut.

He was gasping for breath and knew he was shaking, but couldn't seem to stop. He'd almost killed his brother. He could have killed Sam just by reading an article. At the crossroads, she'd said any attempt to try to weasel out of the deal and Sam dropped dead. One little article, one little bit of help with Sam's research and she could take it all back. The deal would be off.

"Dean?" Sam sounded close to panic himself.

Dean felt a hand on his shoulder and purposely worked to slow his breathing. "You close the laptop?"

"Yeah. You wanna open your eyes now?" Sam asked, sounding like he was talking to a frightened child. Maybe he was. Dean wished like anything that their dad was around to shoulder the burden, to tell him what to do. He didn't want to be in charge any more. He was a soldier. He_ followed _orders.

Dean opened his eyes to see that Sam was kneeling beside him, watching him worriedly.

"You ok?"

Dean tried to straighten, to brush it off. _I could have killed you, Sammy._ "Sorry. Thought you were trying to get me to read the latest in the Brangelina saga. Couldn't take any more."

"Dean, it was just an article about Melody's murder," Sam said solemnly. "_Crossroads_ is the name of the hospital where she died."

"Oh." It was all Dean could manage.

Sam was silent just watching him.

"I thought… But you wouldn't…"

"Wouldn't what, Dean?" He was still using that cautious, _Dean-might-break-if-I'm-not-careful_ voice.

"You wouldn't trick me into breaking the deal." Dean gave a huff, close to a half-laugh. Sam drew his hand away and Dean felt the loss of the contact keenly. "You wouldn't," he said again. Dean looked up at his brother and he suddenly saw the awful truth in Sam's eyes. He _had_ thought of it. Maybe not just now, but he _had_ and Dean felt fury spread through his whole system like fire. "Sam, that's suicide!"

Dean lurched to his feet using the wall behind him and Sam followed, anger blossoming to life to match Dean's.

"I've _thought_ about it, Dean. That doesn't mean I'm gonna do it. Of _course_ I've thought about it. It would break the deal!"

"Forget it!" Dean roared.

"I'm supposed to be dead," Sam shouted in return.

"Well, so am I! So _what_?"

"But not in pain, not torment, not because of _me_! I don't want that!"

"I don't want it either!" Dean bellowed, drawing Sam up short. "But I want you safe more, ok?"

"Dean," Sam said in that begging tone that made Dean want to do anything to make it better. "I can't…"

He felt the anger pour out of him to be replaced once again by exhaustion. Dean walked to his bed. He kicked off his shoes, pulled the covers back and sat down. "Just promise me, Sammy. Promise me you won't do anything like that."

* * *

Sam walked toward the other bed warily and sat down across from his brother. Dean didn't realize it, but it had taken several long minutes for Sam to get his attention while he'd been pressed against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut. 

"You should get some rest, Dean," Sam said. Dean looked up at him and his eyes narrowed briefly. He'd noticed that Sam hadn't answered him. The problem was that Sam couldn't. He had no idea what he was going to do. His instinct for self-preservation, his desperate need to save Dean, his skewed moral compass where both of those were concerned, their on-going fight against everything they'd let through the Gate that night, his uncertainty about himself and any _additives_ he might have brought back with him from… wherever... He just didn't know what he would do, what he _could_ do, what Dean would _allow_ him to do.

Mel had killed her way through several states to save her sister, but at least she had the dubious excuse of already being dead and therefore not quite herself. Ghosts didn't think like humans. Dr. Travis didn't have that excuse. He'd killed, kidnapped, threatened, coerced… all in the name of saving his sister whose expiration date was fast approaching. He'd made a conscious decision that his sister's life was more important than anything or anyone else. And then there was Dean, who'd simply given himself.

Yeah. Simple. It was all so _simple_.

"Get some sleep, man," he said. "We're both exhausted."

Dean was very still for several seconds and Sam was afraid his brother knew exactly what he'd been thinking. Finally, Dean gave him a half-smile. "Too tired to sleep."

Sam shook his head, though he felt a grin trying to form. "That makes no sense."

"Makes perfect sense," Dean countered, then looked up and their eyes met. "Sorry. About the article-nosedive thing…"

"S'ok," Sam said. "I just figured we were having tryouts for the Chair Olympics again."

"Dude, we haven't had Chair Olympics since you were what? Eight?"

"That was because Dad yelled at you when I split my head open during the diving event."

"Talk about shallow end of the gene pool," Dean snorted. "You dove right into the nightstand."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Dean, we've got the same gene pool."

Dean grinned, though it quickly turned into a yawn. "I'm almost certain I was adopted. It would explain the lack of charm in the other males in the family."

"You should be so lucky."

"Hey, a guy can dream. I'm still holding out hope you're just growing your hair out to donate it to _Locks of Love_." Dean pulled his socks off and threw them across the room to land near his duffel bag. "One of these days you could have a decent haircut."

Sam rolled his eyes and kicked off his shoes. "Great, Dean. Let's talk about donating my hair to charity."

Dean stretched out and pulled the covers up, apparently not caring that he was still wearing his clothes. "Hair," he yawned, "can't explode. I think we're safe."

Safe? Not yet, Sam thought. He sat and watched as Dean dropped off to sleep, his breathing quickly evening out. They weren't safe yet. But they would be. He'd see to it.

* * *

_That's all, folks. Been a pleasure. Now… There was something happening tomorrow… What was it? Can't quite remember… It was important. I'm pretty sure of that… I'm sure it'll come to me._


End file.
